


tell a lie (if you must)

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Conquest of Westeros, F/M, Kings & Queens, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 13:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5787805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>The Gods favour the strong. Lyanna holds onto that truth as they strip Eddard of his crown and titles, thus taking hers too. The King in the North is no longer, in his place is born the Warden of The North. They call her brother Lord Stark, him who has been King for more than half her life.</p>
</blockquote><p>The Conquest of Westeros AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell a lie (if you must)

 

 

 

 

 

The crypt is filled by the cold of the North. Humid earth beneath her feet, Lyanna stands before the statue of her father. Next to it is Brandon’s. Somewhere inside of her there is a sliver of remorse, of mourning for these people that she’s known so little of. She doesn’t even remember their faces. Her fingers brush the cool stones. At least Eddard got to know them.

“My Princess, what are you doing here?” Vayon Poole asks, coming down the steps. “The King requires your presence.”

It is on the tip of her tongue to send the old man away. Eddard wishes to speak to her of things she doesn’t want to know. He’ll tell her that he goes to war for her, for their people. She doesn’t want to hear it. All her life people have been leaving her. First her mother and Benjen, then father and Brandon, now Eddard. Can she not keep at least him? Why must there be war and fighting and killing?

“I hear and obey,” she murmurs, lifting her skirts slightly to step over a small puddle. The North is her home, and Lyanna loves her home. Can they not all live without destruction? Winterfell has been the seat of the Stark for ages. The Kings of the North. Lyanna thinks on that as she climbs the stairs one by one, her pace slow. As if she may hold back the unpleasant news if she delays seeing her brother. Eddard Stark, King of the North. They are Starks with winter in their bones and ice in their veins. It is to them that the dwellers of these frozen lands bow.

She reaches the hall too fast for her liking. Would that the journey had taken longer. Eddard sits upon his throne, silver eyes fixed upon her as she enters. “Come Lyanna,” he calls, extending his hand. Once she would have run in his arms, seeking protection. Not now. Now she’s grown. And she must share these burdens of his the best she can.

“My King,” she bows, coming to stand before him. The crown rests atop his hair, the same hair as hers, as father’s and Brandon’s. But not mother's and not Benjen’s. At least that’s what she’s always heard. “You wished to see me.”

Eddard nods. “I know news of war is always ill-received, even more so by you, sister mine.” Lyanna loves peace, she does, and makes no secret of it. “Yet it is unavoidable. The Targaryens are drawing near, with their hosts and dragons. This fight is ours.”

The Targaryens. Lyanna feels the blood chill in her veins. They are a noble family from Valyria. Long ago they have come to Westeros, making Dragonstone their seat. Then they formed an alliance with the Martells and Tyrells. That happened two hundreds of years ago. Now their power has grown, enough so that they’ve set out to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. They say that the beasts they ride on can swallow a horse full, breath fire and cloud the sky when they spread their wings. How does Eddard hope to win against them, she knows not.

“Who rides with you?” At the very least she would know him well protected. Armoured and carrying a sword. Even that won’t offer him enough protection against the dragons and the Dragonlords. The North has been calling forth its strength, bannermen of her King, Lords of his court.

“All who must,” Eddard replies. “That is not why I called you.” He sits up, paces towards her and looks into her eyes. “I leave Winterfell into your capable hands.” Naturally, he would. Lyanna is his only close kin.

For some reason Eddard has yet to wed, nor has he pushed Lyanna in such a direction. She suspects it is because he would keep her close still, even for a few more years. They are the last of their line. The Wolves of Winterfell. Lyanna thinks on old stories she’s heard from Nan. She thinks of Bael the Bard, the wilding who had a son by Brandon Star’s daughter. She’d been the last of her line, and the wilding had taken her from her father’s castle. For this reason they call that Brandon the daughterless. They have gone through this before and emerged triumphant. Bael’s Lady gave birth to a son who would later kill his own father. She looks to Eddard and sends a prayer to the gods in their forests.

“I am most honoured,” she tells him. Lyanna Stark, with winter in her bones and ice in her veins, Lyanna on whose shoulders rests the weight of the world, Lyanna who has never known what it is to live without sorrow; Lyanna Stark stands with her back straight and her mouth set in a thin line. Bloodless lips press together tightly.

“It is not forever,” Eddard assures her, kiss her brow. She still does not quite reach his chin. Lyanna holds onto him. “I shall be back before you know it.”

“Would that you didn’t leave at all.” Others can fight in his place, she wants to say, but doesn’t. Eddard is no coward, he won’t run from a fight.

Damn the Targaryens and their dragons and them not being able to keep to Dragonstone. Lyanna has heard that it is Rhaegar Targaryen who leads them. The eldest of the Targaryen siblings. Viserys comes next, a cruel man who loves death and torture. Then there is a woman, skilled with her thin long sword of black steel. Daenerys Targaryen, they whisper, fights better than most men. And in this moment Lyanna hates all three of them for their ambition and the losses she’ll undoubtedly suffer. The North will be lit by dragonfire, bright and all consuming and rivers of blood would run where once clean water had been. Again, Lyanna finds anger beating viciously inside of her, like a living, wild thing. All that she’s ever wanted was peace and happiness. The gods have closed their ears to her prayers, as they will when the Targaryens come.    

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Gods favour the strong. Lyanna holds onto that truth as they strip Eddard of his crown and titles, thus taking hers too. The King in the North is no longer, in his place is born the Warden of The North. They call her brother Lord Stark, him who has been King for more than half her life.

“Lady Stark,” says one of the generals with silver hair and violet eyes, “allow me to help you.” He offers her his arm, covered in black velvet. The man looks at her intently, as if reading into her soul.

“Lady Stark has died more than a decade ago,” she responds bitterly, slipping her hand through his. How could they possibly think her Eddard’s wife? Perhaps because it is so deeply rooted into their own customs that brother should marry sister. Lyanna wishes she could show her disgust at the practice. Just how insane does one have to be to marry one’s own sibling? It is simply revolting. And thus she finds yet another reason to cling tightly to her hate for these strangers with pale hair, eyes of amethyst and otherworldly beauty. In fact Lyanna bets that Rhaegar Targaryen takes his own sister to bed. What other woman would want him?

“And who is this?” asks a young man with the same silver hair and violet eyes. “Does the pretty bird have a name?” He takes a piece of her unbound hair, toying with the ends. Lyanna wants to snap at him, tell him that she’s Princess of the North and should he treat her like a trollop she would see that he loses a hand at the very least. Sadly, she is no longer a Princess, and her threat cannot be carried out. “Well?”

“Viserys!” Rhaegar Targaryen calls out to his brother. “How good of you to have brought Lord Stark’s sister to us.” Daenerys next to him smiles serenely, like she hadn’t been cutting down her countrymen mere days ago. Lyanna swallows her anger, not a thankful though making its way through her mind. She hopes, instead, that they choke on the wine at the feast. “Come closer, my Lady, I would see your face.”

In vain does Lyanna wish it otherwise, her legs move on their own, bringing her, step by step, closer to the eldest Targaryen’s lean, tall form. She bows stiffly, wounded pride stinging underneath the calm surface. “My King.” The words almost don’t come out. She’s so used to calling Eddard by the title that it somehow feels like ash in her mouth to be saying the words to Rhaegar Targaryen. Unlike his younger brother, Rhaegar has something stern about his face. He looks at her in a manner that conveys sadness and hope at the same time. Lyanna cannot hold his stare, her eyes fall to the pin holding his cloak.

Rhaegar nods towards Eddard as if some sort of bargain has been sealed between them. “What is your age, my Lady?” The warrior’s gaze doesn’t leave her, even as the skin heats.

“Eight and ten, my King.” What does it matter? Lyanna refuses to meet his eyes and hopes that her skin will cool down and that he shall leave her in the next moment.

“Good. She is old enough.” He turns towards Eddard. Without so much as a by your leave, he speaks to her brother. “I’ll take her to wife. Let her be my Queen.”

“If it please you,” Eddard replies.

Gray eyes widen in disbelief. Her mouth opens to protest, yet Lyanna can say nothing. The cut is deep. Her own brother would give her away so easily. Sell her to a man who took his crown as if she were horseflesh, no more important than an ornament, to be a gift. What can she say to this? Sharp nails dig into her palm, drawing blood. Lyanna pays them no mind. She’s too preoccupied for that.

Why does he not marry his sister? Lyanna rages at the unfairness of it all. She doesn’t want to be his Queen. She doesn’t want to share his home and bed, and bring him sons with silver locks and vivid violet eyes. His sister would be better suited, and, indeed, Lyanna would be happier for it.

“I beg your pardon, my King, my Lord,” she forces herself to speak. “I would like to retreat, if I may.” She simply has to or else she’ll likely do something she would later regret.

Eddard comes to her later. “It is for the best, sister.” He places a gentle, caring hand on her shoulder, which she promptly shakes away. “Lyanna.”

“How could you?” she growls out. “What am I to you that you would discard of me so simply?” Her voice thickens with tears and grief. “Do I mean so little?”

“You are not a child!” her brother tells her severely. “You have my love. But are not a child to be coddled. We must do what is best for our people.” He holds his hand up when she intends to interrupt. “Heed my words. They have an army, ours was crushed. They have dragons, we have plain swords. We cannot fight and win. Bring the peace we need, sister, and you shall nor regret it.”

“Can no other lady have this honour? There are fairer maiden in these lands, brother. There is Cersei Lannister, one of the Tully sisters, even a Tyrell girl.” Rhaegar Targaryen could have his pick. Why does he insist that it be her when the title of Queen would best please other women?

“It is you he wants,” Eddard says. “He is not without honour.”

“I don’t love him.” She doesn’t even like him. She hardly knows him.

“Yet you shall learn to live with him, for he is to be your lord and husband.” This is the end of their discussion, Lyanna knows.

Oh, she does hate the Targaryens, especially Rhaegar Targaryen. Her knees grow weak, and she finds herself sliding to the floor. “Would that you feel exactly what I feel now, brother,” she whispers to the shadows. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyanna takes in the scent of home, the chilly air caresses her cheeks and the earth dips underneath her feet, welcoming. Eddard leads down the path, his touch soothing. This is the only thing she is grateful for. The only thing she lets herself be grateful for. If Rhaegar Targaryen wants her, then he’ll have to take her by the custom of her people. And at the same time it is so much more binding to her to swear loyalty before her gods. His gods mean nothing to her after all. The North bows to the old gods and no others. The carved faces, with ruby eyes and stern faces.

Her brother was right when he’d told her that it fell to her to bring a measure peace. Brandon’s widow, Ashara of House Dayne, has helped her into the dress in the morning. They are not close, Ashara and she, they never have been. Lyanna has always considered Ashara a stranger, where Eddard has welcomed the woman with open arms. But today is different; today Ashara has taken Lyanna into her arms and they both cried. Lyanna for her fate, Ashara she does not know for what. And for a moment they are sisters.

The Dragon King waits for her in front of the ancient weirwood tree. The branches are gnarled; they twine with one another, the stark white skin bleeding crimson leaves. Those haunting red eyes are all encompassing, or so it seems to Lyanna who has grown under the watchful stare. Her throat is suddenly dry, and for a brief moment panic sets in. What if she cannot do this? What if she cannot swear loyalty and obedience to this man whom she doesn’t know any more than he her? The leaves dance in the wind, and she moves closer to her intended place. Once she reaches Rhaegar’s left side, Lyanna dares to look at him. He stares back openly, unconcerned by who may witness and what they say. Without further ado they are joined for life.

“I receive you as mine, so that you become my wife and I your husband, bound to you until the end of our days.” His voice is deep and solemn and Lyanna trembles, but not from the cold. His hand has found hers as he made his declaration. In a way she is glad his vow holds no promises of love. As Lyanna is not made of stone, she thinks that love would be able to melt her. Yet she wants to keep loathing these people who have taken everything, even her fate, out of her hands.

Likewise, she makes her own promise to him. “I receive you as mine, so that you become my husband and I your wife, bound to you until the end of our days.” And by this she means that it is to his words she will listen and with him that she would remain.  

And so, in a manner simple that hides so many complications, Lyanna is married to Rhaegar. And still she doesn’t love him. Violet eyes search her face and quick fingers loose the knot holding her cloak. The gray garment falls into Ashara’s arms. Lyanna is given a new one. The pitch-black and the red dragon and a furred collar. She is tempted to smile.

Then the songs start. People have always liked making merry. Lyanna does not begrudge them that, but neither does she join them in their happiness. For her this day is one of losses. So she sits at the table, close to her husband. This is the first time she’s seen him smile. It is strange, for it makes him more human than she’d thought him to be.

Mayhap being his Queen won’t be such a trial, she thinks. True, she might never love him, and she might never even grow to like him, yet she will have to live with him and be the other of his children. And perhaps that will be enough for her. There are those who have less.

“Why did you not wed your sister?” she asks him when they alone in his chambers. Lyanna cannot bring herself to think of them as theirs. Her rooms not that far away. “Is that not your custom?” It is a rude question, but Lyanna does not even flinch when his gaze rests on her, dark and strange.

Any other man might have struck her for the impertinence. Rhaegar simply leans back against the wall. “Would you hear confessions of undying love from me, my Lady?” Strange enough, his voice is not mocking. “Even if they were untrue, you would wish to hear them?”

“Keep your affection, my King. I have no need of it. Why did you choose me?” How does his mind work? Lyanna sits on the bed’s edge, wary. He doesn’t approach her.

“For peace,” he states calmly. “I would have my men takes wives for this purpose. Yet if I shy away from this duty, they would recoil too. I am setting an example of sorts.”

It sounds so logical, devoid of emotions. Lyanna breathes a sigh of relief. She makes to stand and watches him come closer. No protest leaves her mouth when he turns her around gently and unlaces her dress. She has no words to give him when they slip under the covers together or when his skin touches hers. There is only a moment of pain, accompanied by a sharp sound and a few drops of blood.

When he is done, Lyanna makes sure that she is well covered and turns her back to him. He doesn’t stop her; doesn’t so much as make a sound. Lyanna feels tears gathering in her eyes and bites her lips against the sobs. She feels empty. She feels cheated. She feels abandoned. Even she doesn’t quite know what it is she feels. What did she think would happen? That he would fall in love with her just like this, out of the blue? Those are things a silly girl would believe. And still, it burns; his indifference wounds her more than she thought it would.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grasping her husband’s hand, Lyanna allows herself to be pulled to her feet. “Come, my Lady. ‘Tis time we retired,” Rhaegar tells her softly. Not that she would offer any sort of protest, for she herself is tired beyond measure. It’s been months since the Maesters have told her she is with child, and with every turn of the moon she feels a little wearier, a little more drained. Her companions tell her it is normal, that she shouldn’t worry. Lyanna nods along distantly, too drained for anything else.

Rhaegar has gifted her jewels and silks and anything she could possibly dream of when she told him. He had smiled in a way that left her breathless when she had started rounding. Lyanna still clutches the memory to her heart. Rhaegar is not a man without honour. He treats her well. She has never wanted for anything since marrying him. She is a Queen, not only in name, but in deed also. But as much as she doesn’t love him, he loves her neither. Not even the child growing in her womb can change that.

Tonight the babe is extremely fussy, kicking her with every step. She is sore, more so than she remembers being during the course of her pregnancy. A harsh pain cuts through her, making it hard to breathe. She looks down, perhaps at the same time as Rhaegar because she can hear his gasp, hers becomes a cry of alarm.

Her husband wastes no time picking her up in his arms. He is stronger than she would have guessed, but Lyanna has never found that to be surprising, her brother is much the same. Yet is serves nothing to be thinking of Eddard when the pain rips her apart. She doesn’t know exactly when they bring her to her rooms or when the Maester’s come. The only thing Lyanna can feel is constant, unadulterated extreme pain.

Fear spears through her when Rhaegar is asked to leave. She would beg him to stay, but she can’t manage anything other than scream. Someone hands her a clean strip of cloth, instructing he to bite hard on it. Her yells are muffled some, as her teeth dig into the white material. Tears run down her cheeks, mingled with sweat, full of desperation and rage and everything she never managed to say when she could. “I’m dying,” she sobs when her mouth is freed and they try to give her water. “Make it stop.”

“My Queen, save your strength,” one of the Maesters tells her. “Here, have a drink of water.” He also wipes her forehead with a cool rag of dark green. “That’s it, my Queen, just so.”

She hasn’t quite regained her breath when she has to start pushing again. There’s a waves of pain, then another and another. Lyanna finds herself praying for some sort of succour, be it in even in the form of eternal sleep. The encouragements reach her ears, but she has little force now. It feels like the child is cutting its way out of her. Is that what Benjen did to her mother? Is this the way her mother died? Gods be good, she can feel the blood flowing out of her, each lost drop leaving her even weaker than before.

It could have been days, hours or merely minutes, with her bound to the bed like that. Lyanna has no idea how much time has passed. But, in the end, the pain stops. Her head falls back on the pillow as she forces herself to give one more push. Just one more, they say, and she can rest after that. The dampness on her forehead is once more washed away. Strangely there is no sound in the room. She could hear pin drop if she tries.

“My child,” she speaks, hoping that they can hear her. Why are they not giving her the child? She has bled and writhed in pain for the life she’s brought onto this world. The least they can do is let her see the babe. They prop her up, helping her against the pillow.

“We beg your forgiveness, my Lady,” the oldest of the Maesters says. He holds a bundle in his arms. “She was stillborn.” And the whole world falls on her.

This time her yell is one of grief. She doesn’t care that Rhaegar comes rushing in, nor that his siblings follow. She doesn’t care that she looks a madwoman. “Give me my child!” It’s a harsh commend that leaves her throat. “She cannot be dead.”

There is not a moment when she hates Rhaegar more than when they put the dead child in her arms. She looks like him. Her sweet baby. Sobs spring forth from her. She wants to push Rhaegar’s arms away when they wrap around her. She wants to yell at him and curse his name. He’s given her this precious creature, the only good thing about their marriage, only to have everything become a nightmare.

“Leave, all of you,” her husband commands. “Lyanna, look at me.” He pries the tiny corpse from her arms, allowing the Maesters to take it, and hols her firmly when she tries to scramble after it. “Stop it,” Rhaegar hisses when she claws at his arms in her anguish. “Enough!”

“Let me go! I hate you,” Lyanna spits the words out at him. Still he holds her to him, smoothing her damp hair back. She begs and begs; he doesn’t listen. He embraces her through the tears and the anger, not releasing her. His warmth is soothing, and she hates that it can calm her somewhat.

“She was mine too,” he whispers in her ear, his grasp tightening. For him there are no tears, but Lyanna does not doubt that his eyes have darkened in grief as hers have. She rests her head on his shoulder, and her arms come around his shoulders.

In the end they find that little Visenya wouldn't have had much of a chance at living had she been born with breath in her lungs. She came too early, not yet properly developed.

Lyanna leans into Rhaegar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day Eddard weds Catelyn Tully Lyanna finds Ashara crying. Now it all makes sense, her brother’s welcoming arms and the closeness that’s been between them for years. She doesn’t say anything but strokes the woman’s back gently. In her own way she understands the pain. Ashara loves Eddard, Eddard loves Ashara and Eddard weds Catelyn Tully. Lyanna sighs heavily. Later at the feast she sits by her husband and has to remind herself that Catelyn is her good-sister also. The redhead looks so small, despite being taller than Lyanna and older too.

Wine flows freely and dish after dish is served. And when finally it comes the time for the bride and groom to be led to bed, she shudders. Lord Tully insisted that they be wed in the faith of the Seven, and thus they follow those customs. Lyanna watches somewhat subdued as they tear clothes off, and the slightly panicked look on Catelyn’s face. She doesn’t dare look which men pulls harder on the dress, she doesn’t want to know. Lyanna ambles to the chambers she shares with her husband and slides under the covers. She waits with a burning candle for company. She waits for Rhaegar to come to her, because she won’t go to him. Since Visenys, Rhaegar has been almost hesitant. Lyanna wishes it didn’t bother her.

Yet bother her it does. So when he comes, she gently raises her head, as if surprised.  They speak no words. Rhaegar blows the candle out, then joins her in bed. Lyanna breathes heavily just once but offers no protest. Instead she twines her arms around his shoulders and coils about his straight form. It is not love, she thinks, for she has none to give to him, but she does desire a child. If the Gods be good they’ll grant her one. So she stands back meekly and allows her husband to do as he will, taking her pleasure where she can. As always he is kind to her, holding her as if she were made of glass. He ought to have understood by now that the North breeds stronger women. She won’t break under his touch. As a lesson she pushes against him in reply to his trust. And once she’s started she cannot stop.

They push and pull apart, caught in one another, so much so that they hear nothing but their own passion soaring in the zenith before it comes crashing down around them. They may not love each other, Lyanna considers, brushing slight fingers through her husband’s silver hair, but they sure do ignite. His skin clings to hers. His hands cradle her hips, the slowly move upwards. Lyanna shivers at the touch, because she knows, for she’s spend too much time with him not to, that he is pleased. And for the first time in a long time he doesn’t pull away immediately; instead lingers just there.

He buries his head in her shoulder, mouthing something against the curve of her neck. Lyanna doesn’t hear, she closes her eyes to the feeling of his lips. Words are wind, words fly away, words are ghosts to the beating of their hearts. But they burn her skin nonetheless, leaving marks, as sure as she’s left hers upon Rhaegar.

There is a jolt and then a reawakening. Lyanna wonders how he has any strength left. Apparently he has enough for she’s barely caught her breath when he makes her yield it again to his mouth and hands. If she yells, or keeps her pleasure to herself, Lyanna doesn’t really know. She suspects it is the former because she can feel Rhaegar smiling against her collarbone. It’s the sort of smile she wouldn’t have expected from him; he who plays the harp and rides his dragon and looks at her with such sad violet eyes. That is to say, he smiles like he’s won something out of this, the same way he does when she’s enthralled with one of his presents.     

If she were a maiden, a foolish, little girl she would have sworn this is love; that Rhaegar loves her. “Thank you,” she whispers against the top of his head, her fingers still coiled in his now wild mane. “Thank you. Thank you.” Why can’t she say anything else?

In response she feels him pressing kisses to her skin, damper and saltier than it was before, she’s sure. Rhaegar is not a man of many words. But, in the darkness that has veiled them, Lyanna fancies she can hear promises and admissions. Maybe not from his lips, but from the way his hands hold her and the way he embraces her body to his; surely these are pledges and confessions all the same.

Forth comes morning, and Lyanna wakes to an empty bed. Usually it is her to wake first, sometimes before the sun rises. She would look out the window, then to Rhaegar’s sleeping form, and to the distance between them. She’d settle back in, debate awhile in her mind, then attach herself to his side, curling against the warmth. With that she would fall back to sleep, only waking when he had left the room.

Ashara knocks when she is not yet out of bed, calling her name. Lyanna allows her entry, slipping into her silken robe. “Had people been here the other night they would have taken this to be the chamber of the newlyweds,” the Dornish woman teases.

Embarrassment burns in her cheeks. “You ought not to have listened then,” she chides softly, but with a smile.

“I didn’t have much of a choice.” Ashara blinks against the light.

Neither laughs now. “Hardly anyone ever does,” Lyanna offers. It is poor consolation but it is the truth. “But I have found that it does get better.” Mayhap not in the way of songs, but good enough for her to be happy with. Lyanna takes Ashara’s hand after she’s changed into one of her gowns and together they go to break their fast. Catelyn is shortly after drawn into their conversation. This is life, the Queen reflects, barely catching Rhaegar’s eye over the pastries.      

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaegar brushes her hair, gently dragging the comb through her dark tresses. Lyanna has long stopped wondering about his willingness to do this for her. It is somewhat strange, for his calloused hands have been made to hold swords and defeat enemies, and having him act with such gentleness is something she takes as a sign of affection. Not so much the brushing of her hair, as the fact that he spends time with her when he does not need to. Of course, this habit has been long in the making and fell easily into place at the appropriate moment; which really does not surprise Lyanna at all, as things do tend to work out even when there is little involvement from humans. It must mean that the gods have yet to tire of taking care of them all.

He treats her as if she were made of spun glass. Lyanna would laugh if she weren’t enthralled by this. Why does he continue to shield her after so many years, when there is nothing more to be gained by it? There can be no doubt that her husband does cherish her. Her eyes focus on him in the mirror and she contemplated this man quietly. They have been married for more than a decade now, and there are times when she feels a scared little girl, half in love with the man. After so much time passed in his company, Lyanna is still surprised by the thrill he evokes when he so puts his mind to it. Perhaps in his own way Rhaegar is half in love with her too, or maybe he quite simply loves her and that is that. But it does please her nonetheless.

Lyanna does realise that this has been coming together one piece at a time. There is no sudden realisation or ardent confessions of love. This is not how it stands between them, and Lyanna is quite glad for it. After all, words without substance are useless when one seeks to find themselves into another, to see a reflection of their feelings mirroring across the face of their partner. It is rather like souls that bond together, having this particular inclination towards one another.

“I see you are distracted,” Rhaegar voices, catching Lyanna by surprise. She looks up at his reflection, their eyes meeting in the mirror; their gazes hold close together. “May I ask what has taken you so far away?” He has not stopped brushing her hair even as he speaks.

“Just woolgathering,” she replies. Ten years have left their mark on her, Lyanna thinks. “Have you seen the children?” Those little dragons have surely gotten into some mischief by now. “I hope they have been behaving at least moderately adequate.”

And he smiles, because it is knows that their children aren’t moderately anything. “If it please you.” She smiles back at him through the looking glass. The comb is placed on the small table, and Lyanna brings herself to her feet. “If it please you, then they have.”

Now Lyanna laughs. It is so easy to be herself around him who knows her inside out. “I have no doubt you are not telling me the truth.” Alas there is nothing to be done. Children will be children, after all, and Lyanna is more than happy to tolerate their antics as long as they know there are times when they must behave. Which they do. “I should just throw you out of my room.”

“You would not. You like my presence here.” Yes, it cannot be denied that he knows her well enough. “Besides I do not plan on leaving anytime soon, my Lady.”

Not that she would want him to anyway. “I see, well I shan’t insist upon that then.” She leans against the table, pulling just slightly away from him. He follows, as if drawn by a magnet. She smiles softly. “Are you not tired?”

“Tired?” He considers her words, eyes going misty. “I suppose I am tired.” And so he should, Lyanna decides. Ruling is no easy thing, even if he does have some help of sorts from his siblings. She opens her arms in invitation. “I should like to rest in your arms.”

It is not so much about the act of coupling as it is about companionship, Lyanna muses once they are together under the coverings. She holds him close to her, his breath tickling her exposed neck. She likes the way he fills her arms and how warm he feels against her. Her heart has settled into an easy rhythm as his arm stretches out over her. How many times had she told herself she would not fall in love with this man? Lyanna has lost count, there have been many times over the course of their marriage, certainly. And in the end, she has not fallen in love with him. It is nothing of that sort, but she does love him.

For her it has been a time strengthened love. It began as a sliver, small and frail, getting stronger and stronger with each kindness, and each year, and Lyanna simply cannot image her life being any different than it is now. And a small wonder it is, when one becomes so entwined with the other. Lyanna closes her eyes in her contentment. What it is to love and be loved in return.

 

 

 

 

       

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [when fell winter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9249884) by [solitariusvirtus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus)




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